


Sussurration

by punkypeggy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:51:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1444147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkypeggy/pseuds/punkypeggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silence is the most powerful scream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sussurration

_Unspoken words._

 

That is what I hear everytime I see them, sometimes resembling a calm sleep, others, sprawled on the floor, limbs twisted in positions I’ve long forgotten the name of. Closed with a lock, open like a red chest of wonders. Curled tight into a ball, scattered all along the riverbed. Swollen, ripe, dry, carbonised. Salvaged, pillaged, or simply forgotten. Left to vermin. Preserved like dolls. Each one of them tells a different story. Each one of them found a different demon at the crossroads. For some, the demon was cold and metallic, golden, silver, shiny, plastic or cash. For others, the forbidden caress of a woman or a man in a dark alley with an unwanted witness. For her, it was chance. The wrong time, the wrong place. For him, curiosity. For them, revenge.   
  
Beware of passion, for it clouds vision and it easily turns into hate.  
  
She thought his love was rough and he had had a bad day. Bad days often turned into bad weeks, despair soon turned into alcohol. The occasional redness on her face became purple, the bones broke. She was prone to accidents, that was it. Of course that was it. He was a good man, he could never… They all knew him, he lived only for her, for he loved her so much.   
  
They all concluded it was a robbery gone wrong. Half of the stuff was missing, the lock destroyed. Half of the stuff, but only hers. I can still see the nails bitten almost to the lunula, the hair falling from her scalp at the softest touch, the fatigue on what was left of her face. Her body, broken and mended and broken again, one last time. The man blatantly staring into my eyes, his own looking up to the left when trying to “remember” what had “happened”. How he had arrived and found her, lifeless, on the floor.  
  
And then, a single spot of blood, sticking out from under his pristine white shirt. How did it get there? How did it jump up from a lifeless body to his own? Why did it stain his skin, if he was wearing that same shirt when he arrived?  
  
They can lie all they want, but I see them and they talk to me.   
  
Unspoken words.  
  
The faint susurration of those who can no longer speak.                                         


End file.
